Routine, I find, is both a comfort and a discomfort.  Stripped of all routine when I first became ill, I floundered about looking for some order to the resulting chaos.  I longed for a routine, like a navigational device, to help me define exactly where I was in all the madness.  (Still compass-less I’m afraid.)

At the same time, I fear a numbing sameness – a morose monotony of nonsensical repetition.  I remember doing anything to break the boredom – taking a different route home from work, turning my lessons upside down, or rearranging the classroom – anything to invite new energy.

I feel the same about writing.  It is seductive to find a comfort zone and stay there – convincing myself that this is perfecting my craft, however; I suspect a trap.  Ego, I’ve noted, likes to sabotage.  Exploration is the only way to expand creativity and ignite revelation.